So we meet slightly closer to the South Bank, just beyond the mid-point of the bridge.

We count the steps.

One takes one-hundred and eleven.

The other takes one-hundred and three.

This is enough to avoid the main part of the suspension.

We walk, one on the right and one on the left.

One hundred and eleven steps past couples holding hands, seagulls perched on the cables and a mother pushing her small child in the pram while the older child stands on a board attached to the back.

One hundred and three steps past two joggers, a man in a wheelchair and more seagulls resting on the far reaches of the structure, allowing themselves time to relax and dream.

Then we meet.

Ninety-seven steps; I take one end of the rope and place the loop over my head.

One hundred steps; I take the other end from the backpack and hold that loop in my hand; the bag holds the weight and length of the rope. Nobody even notices.

Nobody cares.

One hundred and three steps; I place the loop over his head as he hits the mark.

We don’t stop moving.

This is our moment of choice.

Like a choreographed dance move we turn in opposite directions from each other. One facing Southwark Bridge with Tower Bridge looming magnificently in the distance, the other having a view of the scaffolding and tarpaulin-covered Blackfriars.

And we speed towards the edge.

Too spontaneous for a bystander to attempt to intervene.

Too late for us to stop ourselves.

The choice has been made.

The rope is unravelling.

We leap from the rails on either side of the bridge, dropping through a gap between two steel rods, disturbing the resting gulls around us. The rucksack containing the main length of rope is dropped in the centre of the walkway and, as we fall to our fates, the rope springs upwards out of the bag, becoming taut as it wrenches our necks on either side of the structure, instantly transforming us both into nobodies.

There are screams that we do not hear as our vertebrae dislocate, as our brains die and our airways are viced. The line of rope splits the walkway into two sections of equal mayhem and pandemonium. Some Londoners are too busy to stand around and watch, they do not want to be involved, they have their own lives. Many are rooted to the spot in shock. Some turn back from the direction they came, others duck under the rope and continue their journey.

All are afraid of the bag left behind. Some think it could be a bomb; others are fearful of the unknown.

It is empty, almost. Just a sheet of paper with a short note to explain ourselves. Everyone knows what it will say. They’ve seen the news. They’ve scrolled through their feeds every hour since the last nine jumped.

The first nine, they think.